


Bluebells and Buttercups and Lies (Oh My!)

by honeyandsunshine



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, I keep it pretty PG-13 everyone just hugs a bunch, M/M, Major Illness, Team as Family, The team loves Spock, They all love each other Spock just doesn't know it yet, They worry for their angsty emo friend, Threesome - M/M/M, but like at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyandsunshine/pseuds/honeyandsunshine
Summary: Hanahaki is a disease that only affects humans. Spock is not human, so therefore he does not have the disease, despite any evidence to the contrary.Or: Spock falls in love with his Captain and his CMO, and handles it about as well as expected. The crew worries.





	1. The Part Where Spock Lies

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> This has been a long, long time coming. Legit, this has been an idea of mine for months now but I've just now got this much to show for it. So please enjoy this! Also, this first part is angsty. Just so, so angsty, I mean there's a bit of fluff but mostly it is just straight good ol' Spock angst. Uh... Good luck?
> 
> Also, I sorta went my own way with how Hanahaki presents so cheers to that I guess.

When he first sees them, its an accident, made entirely of turning the corner to his quarters too fast, and then standing too stock-still, watching as his Captain and CMO hastily extradite themselves from each other’s presence, blushing and shuffling their feet and muttering ‘sorry Spock’ in increasingly high voices. 

They shouldn’t be apologizing. What they do in their own time is none of his business, nor his prerogative to know such, regardless of what Command might say. He assures them as such, tracking how they both visibly relax and grin at him, clapping embarrassed hands to his shoulders as they rush off to the Captain’s suite. 

What the captain and the doctor are experiencing is basic human emotion, and as a Vulcan, it should not matter to him, either way. Still, the phantom feeling of their handprints burn far too long against his skin. 

Meditation does nothing for him that night. Spock clears his mind - _ except it is anything but- _ and does not think of the doctor’s hands tangled in his captain’s hair, of brown on blonde, gold against blue. He grits his teeth and clenches his palms, buries the memory of finding them pressed chest to chest further and further back into the recesses of his mind, and still, no relief comes. 

It is displeasing how easily his calm is shattered. It is  _ shameful _ how easily his calm is shattered. His heritage swings round on a pendulum and to feel it circle  _ human _ opens a cavernous pit in his chest.

When time comes for his next shift, he has not meditated for even one hour. Exhaustion settles over every part of his body. His efficiency is down by 0.2%.  Shame, yet again, builds in him. 

His mouth tastes like spring on Vulcan. 

He avoids analyzing what this means.

\----

McCoy is not intellectually challenged. Spock has always accepted this as fact. Despite his need to involve emotion in almost every aspect of his life, McCoy has a sharp wit and a brilliant mind that has served him well both on the Enterprise and off. The man created vaccines that have saved hundreds upon thousands of lives, worked surgeries on lifeforms previously unknown to him, and still, it...intrigues Spock every time to see how quickly his mind works up close. Spock might even go as far as to say it’s unexpected. Unlike on bridge, the lab’s version of McCoy is methodical and calm. They may bicker in almost every situation, but somehow, Spock finds that working side by side with McCoy is a fascinating study, to say the least. The Doctor solves problems in ways that are both intellectual and so deeply human that Spock can scarcely comprehend all of his ideas. Still, their work in the lab is unparalleled by any other team.

McCoy gripes. He debates. The work gets done, and it gets done well.The surrounding technicians watch with trepidation and no small amount of awe. It’s routine. Calming. If he were human, Spock might even go as far as to call it pleasant.

That is, it would be such if it were only McCoy. 

At 0500, an hour into their lab, the Captain wanders down to their station. His Gamma shift has ended, and Spock has no reason to send him away, much less authority to. What Jim…what _the_ _Captain_ does in his spare time is not Spock’s business. It should not affect him if Kirk spends his free time laughing with McCoy or leaning against McCoy or putting a hand on McCoy’s thigh when he thinks no one is looking.

Their work is not affected, so the deviation should be fine. 

It should not bother him.

It does not bother him.

It-

The beaker he’s working on shatters in his grasp. 

McCoy curses. Kirk gapes in open concern. Their hands thankfully return to their persons. 

Spock firmly tells himself that the relief he feels is simply due to the unclenching of his fists, that it has nothing to do with the cease of physical affection. Vulcans have significantly thicker skin than humans, in the most literal sense, so the glass does not slide as deeply into his hand as it would a human, but as the hands are the most sensitive part of Vulcan anatomy, what does penetrate the skin does so  _ painfully _ . Spock does not flinch. To do so would be a loss of control.  

The humans in his midst have no such qualms.

“Shit Spock,” McCoy says, already going for his tricorder. Next to him, Jim makes an aborted movement to help McCoy, turns on his heel, and instead steps forward to press his hand against the sleeve of Spock’s uniform. The heat from his palm slips easily through the thin fabric. 

“Are you alright?” He asks. 

Some part of Spock knows the answer; the  _ Vulcan _ part of him knows the answer. The human part of him lies through his teeth. 

“I am fine, Captain.”

McCoy and Kirk glance at each other worriedly. They do not mention that fine has a relative meaning. In fact, they do not mention anything at all. Instead, they simply lean in closer and perpetuate a problem they cannot see and Spock will not acknowledge. 

Spock himself breathes in. Breathes out. Watches the doctor work around blood that stains his hands green as a fresh summer's day. 

When they’re done, he leaves without so much as a word. 

Pride is, after all, a human trait.

\---

The second time he catches them, they’ve just returned from an excursion. Jim is injured, a rather disconcerting trend that Spock had noticed recently. McCoy is treating him, yet another gaining trend. Spock himself is, for the most part, uninjured, so he spends the day in and out of McCoy’s office, fielding calls from command and attempting to keep the Captain corralled in sickbay until McCoy clears him to leave. They’ve found the latter is very much a two-person job. Still, there is still work to be done, and he cannot do it all within sight of the Captain. So, when he sees that McCoy has Jim as still as he’s going to be, Spock steps out of sickbay for ten point four minutes, just long enough to converse with Commander Scott about the ships repairs. He comes back and is immediately he’s greeted with the sight of McCoy leaning over Jim, pressing their lips together tenderly. The look he gives Jim is reverant. The way Jim leans into him is just as much so.

And Spock?

Spock takes one look and feels more human than he’s felt in years. He feels  _ worse _ than he’s felt in years. 

So he does the logical thing. He turns on his heel and runs. 

Down the hall, he composes himself. He  _ tries _ to compose himself. His strides are still three point six times faster than usual, somewhat reminiscent of a jog. His chest hurts. Everything hurts. There isn’t much thought beyond that point. So, Spock ignores the ensign who attempts to garner his attention, takes another path when he sees Nyota in the hall.

There is a goal in mind, his brain relays, though his own consciousness seems unaware of what that goal may be. His gait remains undeterred however, as he finds himself ducking around officers, haphazardly making his way toward his own quarters. All the while his body regrets every movement he makes.

He is nauseous, desperate,  _ sick _ he thinks, and for a second he debates going back to McCoy and the Captain. Jim is safe. Leonard is safe. Spock trusts them with his life, with his crew’s lives; there’s nothing he wouldn’t-

He nearly bowls over as the pain in his chest increases. 

For a terrifying second - _ no not terrifying, Vulcans are never terrified- _ he’s unable to breathe. Then the pressure lessens and Spock is left gasping against his bathroom door, unsure when he got there and grateful that he did before prying eyes could catch him. 

Because Spock knows what this is. 

It should not be happening; it is after all a human condition. No Vulcan is known to have suffered from it. The symptoms fit but the condition does not. He does not go to McCoy because the thought of going to him with something so private, so  _ wrong  _ makes his body go numb. It is one thing for pon far, something all Vulcans deal with. It is another for this- for this  _ thing _ . 

It is not a Vulcan disease. It is a human disease and he is not- he is only  _ half _ . A growl of indecision escapes him. Logic wars with pride, and Spock opens his mouth to argue a voice that resides only within his own head.

From inside, emanates the rotting smell of spring. 

His body jerks then dips to avoid choking on the sickeningly sweet stems climbing up his throat, and Spock finds himself face to face with the toilet seat as his lungs attempt to remove petal after petal. Panic swirls inside of him, but there is nothing he can do but ride it out, fingers gripping the rim so tightly they’re white. 

Vulcans cannot vomit, Spock tells himself, as his stunted breaths hitch around stems and leaves. He must simply remove one hand from the seat and remove the obstruction. If the flowers stock up much more, he will cease to breathe and die. He is not human, and therefore he must forcefully extract the impediment. It is simple logic. Vulcans cannot-

Spock heaves, and suddenly, he is aware of a fact he has denied his entire life. He is not Vulcan. 

He spends the next hour purging  flowers  from his system. 

\---

Two weeks into the disease, Spock finds that coping has become.. difficult to say the least. Keeping his ailment from the Captain has been arduous; Dr. McCoy even more so. He’s sick more often now, almost every morning without fail,  _ he ignores that it also happens every time he so much as lays eyes on Kirk or McCoy _ , and the near constant nausea and breathlessness has depleted his meditation from five hours to barely one a night, less if the coughing disrupts him. 

And the changes are beginning to show. 

His uniform, which was once form-fitting, hangs loosely off his body. His already pale skin has taken on a starch white hue. Dark circles have taken up residence around his eyes. 

The change is not limited to his appearance either. His efficiency is down by nearly half, and what’s left is not worthy a First Officer of any ship, much less that of  _ The Enterprise _ . Twice, he’s given Ensign Chekov the wrong coordinates on deck, and twice, he’s watched him and Lieutenant Sulu exchange concerned glances, as they quietly correct him. 

Both days a Russian sleeping tonic finds its way to his door. The main ingredient is a rare herb not found anywhere in the galaxy they’re in. Spock ignores the way the warmth gathers in his chest. 

_ He shouldn’t take the tonic. Vulcans don’t necessarily need sleep unless the situation is dire. He does anyway out of some illogical notion of thankfulness to his companions. It’s the only time during his illness he rests through the night.  _

The next day he comes in with a moderately clear head and pretends to disregard the smiles of relief the two send him. Their early dismissal from duty is in no way connected to the incident at all. 

Still, sleep does not solve the problem entirely, and his condition is not in any way dismissable. If he noticed a crewmate exhibiting the same symptoms, he would report them to Doctor McCoy immediately. The safety of his crew is of the utmost importance. Most of his crewmates are human however. Vulcans are not affected by this disease. 

The twelfth time he wakes to a gag of petals he wonders if that matters. 

\--

Three weeks into his illness, he has a routine check-in with Commander Scott, after a collision with a rouge Klingon craft. All engines appear to be running smoothly. 

“But yer not.” Scott says, curling his fingers too tight along the controls, a sure sign of stress. From his proximity, Spock can feel the low thrum of worry that runs through the man; the engineer’s body even acting like an engine. Despite his preference for grand words, Scott does not elaborate, but instead turns and presses a warm container into his hands. “Me grandmother’s famous haggis, vegetarian of course. Take a lunch break, Spock. T’ll do ye good to eat some more.” 

His eyes flick to where Spock’s uniform top billows out just below his ever depleting stomach, excess fabric for not enough fat. 

“Take more than a break if you need it. We’ll miss ye, but our lady will run smooth enough without ‘er First.” It’s as soft a reproach as Scotty could give. The petals still gather against the back of his throat in response. 

“I will not be leaving, Commander.” He says, voice thin with the need to repress the illness until after this encounter. “The warp core appears to be running at its full efficiency, but I should still receive the diagnostics. Thank you for your time.” 

He turns and does not cough. Scott’s reproachful gaze follows him out. 

When he’s far enough away to not be heard, he finds an empty room and gags. Nausea makes the room turn.  

He spends the rest of the day with his stomach too upset to even consider food. He still takes a bite of the haggis. Gifts are treasured in human culture, and for Scott to spend time on such means that Spock should honor it as a show of respect for his coworker. He does not specify friend; the word comes to mind anyway. 

At the end of the day, he’s eaten half the container. It’s the only thing he’s able to keep down. 

-

Nyota corners him in an empty hallway two days after Commander Scott.

Avoidance is a human trait. Vulcans do not show preference for one thing or another, much less the lack of one thing or another, especially not something as simple as human contact.

Still, Spock will admit that he has not seen Nyota much as of late. Although they are no longer romantically involved, she is still his greatest confidant and intellectual equal. There are few things about him that she does not know -with one obvious exception. 

If he were to admit it, he has kept away from her because she will likely be the quickest to ascertain his deception and the person least likely to allow for diversions. 

When Nyota sets her mind to something, she is not easily deterred, and Nyota, it seems, has set her mind on him. 

“Spock!” She snaps, a couple of meters behind him, and all the crewman previously occupying the hallway suddenly all have the collective idea to vacate the area. In better circumstances, Spock would have done the same. These are not better circumstances. Spock has mapped all his crewmates’ tones in an attempt to understand their emotional states long ago. This one indicates that arguing is futile. 

He meets her anger with cool indifference.

“Commander Uhura.” He intones. 

“Don’t even try that with me.” Nyota snaps straight back, snagging his elbow in an iron grip and immediately dragging him into a nearby open rec room. Technically, Spock could break her hold rather easily. While strong for a human, Nyota is still human. Spock’s superior Vulcan biology could easily have him away from this situation and back into the labs where he really does need to be. But the disease has sapped his strength and, even if that were not the case…

He respects her too much to try something like that, especially when he can feel her reasoning through the white-knuckled grip she has on his arm. 

_ Worry _ . Worry and care and terrifying, angry fear that beats pulse after pulse against his skin. 

It does not wax, and it does not wane, even when she slams the door shut and rounds on him.

“You’re scaring Hikaru and Pavel.”

“I assure you that is not my-“

Nyota cuts him off, eyes brimming. Her fear pulses along their contact points. It’s no less potent than his own. 

“Shut up.” She squeezes harder. “Shut up and just  _ listen  _ you insufferable Vulcan.”

Spock presses his lips together and nods, as he watches a tear streak down her face undeterred. Shame curls hot in his belly. He tried to avoid any harm to his crewmates, emotional or otherwise. Evidence shows he has not succeeded. 

“Pavel and Hikaru are worried out of their minds, did you know that? Even you must see how they practically spend their entire lunch breaks pouring over that tonic. Anything and everything to try and make you feel better. Scotty’s not any different. I caught him stress baking _kreyla*_ in the kitchens yesterday. I didn’t even know he what _kreyla*_ was let alone how to make it! And that doesn’t even begin to touch on what you’re doing to Jim and Leonard. I’ve never seen those two so off kilter. And _you-_!” She punctuates the word by jabbing a well-manicured nail into his chest. “You’re losing weight, you’re secluding yourself off shift; we haven’t had a real conversation in weeks! You practically look like you’re dying! You’re scaring us, Spock.” Her voice breaks. “You’re scaring _me._ ” 

Sometime during her speech, her eyes find his. Their shared contact sings with frustration and love, and Spock has to resist the sudden urge to bury his face in her shoulder, take shelter in her strength. 

Even if their relationship was mutually abolished, their friendship has stood the test of time. Nyota is one of the strongest women he has ever known. Seeing her this distraught over anything - _ over him _ \- is undesirable, to say the least. 

He has to avert his eyes to quiet the very human emotions raging in his chest. The flowers burrow in further. 

Nyota sighs, grip slackening on his arm.

“I know whatever this is hard on you. I know this is asking a lot but just talk to someone.  _ Anyone _ . Me, McCoy, Jim; I don’t care. Just-” She takes a breath. “Please  _ ashal-veh.  _ Tell us what’s wrong. Let us help you. We can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.” 

In the end, all Spock can do is nod. It’s not a promise, but it’s the best he can give. Nyota seems to know this.

She presses a kiss to his cheek anyway.

“We love you,” she whispers. “Don’t ever doubt that.” 

Spock guesses the disease is as much a rebuttal as any.

-

As far as restraint goes, Leonard has shown more of it than Spock would have expected. For all of the month he has been ill, the doctor has been suspicious yes, wary indefinitely, but Spock has not found himself strapped down in sickbay with a tricorder to his chest yet. For the tempestuous southerner, it's such a show of trust that Spock’s stomach churns at the thought of it, how much faith this man has in him, how much he’s betraying that faith. 

_ Spock should not think this way. Vulcans do not care for human expressions of faith and hope. A Vulcan should have no problem denying McCoy this human fallacy. A Vulcan should also not have the disease. It appears the Enterprise is much for denying some previously thought inherent truths of the universe. _

As of now, that faith seems to be fully in use. Spock has not become slave to McCoy’s frantic worrying, despite everyone else’s insistence towards the contrary. The doctor still tracks his descent to their labs with a steady gaze, but he does not comment on his graying pallor or the way his uniform seems to swallow him in its recent abundance. Instead, he simply scoots over when Spock arrives, gesturing towards the now vacated space on his lab bench. 

“Ready when you are, Mr. Spock.” 

The station’s already been prepped with their latest project in mind, an unnamed specimen from a recent planetary visit is sitting ready from examination, and a vial full of a recent blood sample sits untouched and ready for him. 

The area is clean and meticulous and exactly how Spock organizes his work, which makes it abundantly clear that McCoy is planning on doing more than just work today. 

The doctor almost never relents to Spock’s style of working, and never without excessive prompting on his behalf -and often some form of input from Jim. It’s so rare in its occurrence that Spock can’t help but stare slightly, taking in the practically pristine workbench before fixing McCoy with a calculating gaze. 

“This is… different, Doctor.”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “Well hello to you too, Sunshine. I am capable of keeping a lab bench clean you know. It’s not that much of a surprise”

Spock has worked with McCoy for nearly five years now, and not once has he managed to keep his area free of clutter. Still, if McCoy is not going to be forthcoming with whatever is going on than Spock has no choice but to continue his work and try to ignore the rising nausea in his gut. 

They make it all of twenty minutes before Spock gets the first inkling as to what the Doctor has planned. 

Spock goes to pour the blood into a couple of test tubes, to have them centrifuge out and experiment on each. McCoy stops him with a motion. 

“Allow me?” It’s a simple question, but there’s a tone behind the doctor’s voice that makes Spock pause. He flicks his gaze over to meet McCoy’s. 

“I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own, Doctor.” He says, voice perfectly level.

McCoy acqueses this with a twitch of the lips. He still holds out a hand for the tubes. 

“You trust me don’t you Spock?” 

Spock does. There is no doubt in his mind that he trusts this man as much as he can possibly trust another living thing, but there are stigmas to be upheld and bantering to be done so instead what slips from his lips is: “Vulcans do not trust.”

He hands the tubes over anyway and watches as McCoy grins something fierce before turning back to his work. He does not, however, stop the conversation. 

“You can trust me with other things too, ya know. If something’s botherin’ you or anyone else, there’s a chance I could help.” He’s making a pointed effort not to look at Spock, but there’s no one else the conversation could be for. His bunchy tunic shifts across his now prominent ribs and Spock knows there’s nothing else the conversation could be about. 

Still, it is not like the two of them to be direct with each other, in anything, even Spock’s own heath. They trade barbs and they nitpick and they watch each other far too close when they think the other isn’t looking and they watch Jim whether the other is looking or not. What they don’t do is show any of this, at least the affection behind it. 

It’s how they work, so there’s nothing abnormal with how Spock dodges around the statement. 

“If it was something purely medical, as the CMO, you would be the first to-”

McCoy cuts him off.

“Not just medical.” He places the tubes in the centrifuge, and then promptly turns the conversation on its head by doing something completely unprecedented. He addresses the problem head-on. “I know we may argue Spock but -aw hell, you’re important to us- _to_ _me_. My Daddy always said I had an ego the size of Texas, but I know when to put it aside. Something’s wrong with you -don’t try to deny it, _there is,_ and I don’t know if I can help but by God, just let me try. _Please_.”

Spock’s mouth goes dry. 

There is something to McCoy’s insistence, to his fear that makes every one of Spock’s instincts tell him to run off and hide. He cannot look this man in the eye and tell him the truth. Not about this. He wouldn’t, couldn’t dare. He cannot stay silent either, not with his entire crew frantic for answers. So he goes with the first human instinct he has and lies. 

“My father has informed me that his doctors on New Vulcan have found a...problem.” This is not necessarily a lie. Still, he cannot deny the pang when McCoy’s eyes snap to his, all pretense of being enthralled in his work vanishing. “A- it is a disease of the heart.” 

One that will not cause a problem for many years to come, the medical team had assured. The implication is enough that he has to avert his eyes at the way McCoy’s face falls, but he isn’t fast enough to avoid the empathy that darts across his companion's features. 

McCoy’s own father had died recently, Spock remembers. Not long before his enrollment to Starfleet. Using this piece of knowledge seems like a breach of trust. Nausea rises steadily in him. 

McCoy seems to sense this and presses a palm to his tunic, right where Jim had pressed his nearly a month ago. He rubs a thumb once along the fabric, the way humans do when they’re trying to be comforting.

“I’m so sorry, Spock,” McCoy says softly. “Do you, do you want me to look in on him?”

He’s asking in a medical capacity, but also as the friend he views himself to be.  _ -that they aren’t. Friends would never commit such a horrendous breach of trust-  _ His eyes are far too soft and far too warm for it to be simply professional. He’s asking because he knows Spock trusts him because he wants to help. Because to him, and to Jim and to the rest of this crew, Spock is trustworthy and would never lie about something of this magnitude. 

Spock is going to be sick. 

He shakes his head once, sharply, and McCoy moves his hand from his arm to his neck, squeezing once before letting go.

“I can finish up this if you want to meditate.” He’s giving him an escape, a chance to leave while the emotions in the room are still high, because McCoy is worried for him and would give him whatever he wished if he thought it would help.

Spock is ever the coward, unsteadily nods his head, and takes his leave, fighting down the nausea as he goes. 

He makes it as far as the restroom down the hall before he has to stop and throw up. The buttercups are just as gold as ever. The bluebells are soiled brown and rotted. 

Deceit cannot inherently have a flavor. It is a subject, a noun, not a food or dish. 

That does not stop Spock from associating it with the slick taste of death as petal after petal slides off his tongue. 

-

Spock is in his Captain’s quarters for their weekly game of chess when Jim confronts him. Of all the things he had avoided when the illness began, this is one of the few he could not get out of - _ this and scheduled labs with McCoy.  _ It is a tradition as much as it is a silent requirement. If Spock had forgone going entirely, this entire ruse could not have lasted more than a week before the Captain demanded he divulge his issue. 

And Spock has never been able to deny his Captain. 

Surprisingly, it has not progressed to that point. At least, not yet. His Captain is one to pry, but he seems to be taking the same route McCoy is and trusting Spock to come to him. 

So, the night begins as the rest of their chess nights have while he’s been sick, with the Captain clearing his cluttered desk for space, grumbling as he goes. Spock watches for a moment at the disorder, for once feeling no press of the flowers, before reaching down to obtain their well worn, but polished set from the shelf by the bed, and then nearly dropping it when Jim opens his mouth.

“You should have told me.”

Spock’s flicks his gaze up to meet Jim’s serious expression, all of his usual carefree attitude stripped from his face.

“Captain, I do not-”

“Yes. You do.” Jim sighs and takes the board from him, readying it for their game. “Bones told me about your father. I- and I  _ know _ that was a horrible misuse of your trust Spock, but the way you’ve been acting these few weeks I had to do  _ something.  _ So I wheedled it out of Bones. I’m sorry.”

He sounds it, and the worry only increases when he continues speaking. 

“For something like that, I would have given you leave, Spock, if you needed -or even  _ wanted! _ \- to visit him. If you had just asked, I-” He trails off, a panicked note in his voice before snapping his eyes up to meet Spock’s. “ _ Did you think I wouldn’t? _ ” 

His Captain’s gaze is frantic, worried, but he waits for an answer. All at once, Spock understands what this is about. This concern is bred of something the Captain perceives as his own fault, as his own shortcomings instead of this grand array of lies Spock has concocted. He thinks he is at fault over something that is entirely not his doing, at least, not in the way he perceives, and Spock feels the guilt return just as strongly as it did when he was faced with McCoy. The flowers, once unnoticeable, push themselves back to the back of his throat.

“ _Captain._ ” Jim stills immediately, snapping his gaze up to meet Spock’s. “I did not withhold this information because I did not think you would grant me leave.”

“Then why-”

“I knew you would have granted me such if I had asked. I did not think it necessary to worry you, as there was a 97.6 percent chance it would,” The nausea pools in his gut. Spock swallows it down and ignores it. “And I knew how difficult these past few months have been for you and Dr. McCoy, after Khan. In all probability, my leave would have negatively affected you and the Doctor, in addition to the rest of our crew. It was my duty as First Officer that I remain here, not cause you more undo problems.” 

The lie has become too large. If lying to McCoy left him nauseous then this is nearly unbearable, with petal after petal bunching at the back of his throat. The flowers inside him writhe. They know the truth. The real reason for Spock’s silence is his knowledge that the Captain and his CMO will not accept his intentions, will cast him out when they find out about the disease and all that it entails. Yet, his Captain trusts him, despite everything that Spock has done to prove to him that he should do otherwise. 

In this moment, there is awe in those eyes. Awe and concern and affection that is beyond misplaced. It's not the look Spock sees him flash McCoy in the halls, but it's close, weakened in its intensity but not its meaning. 

It is not something he should be gifted at any point in time. To have such a look pointed in his direction, it is all that he has ever wanted, and simultaneously, makes his stomach churn. 

He curls his fists ever so slightly along his sides. 

Jim breaks the quiet with a soft, mirthless chuckle and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“ _ God _ Spock. What did we ever do to be blessed with you?” He smiles up at Spock with a raw, trembling sort of smile. “I- I don’t know what we, what  _ I’d  _ do without you by my side.  _ Thank you. _ ” He sounds like he’s about to cry. Maybe he already is, as Spock watches him scrub a weary hand along his face. 

It is deceit of the highest caliber. Spock ought to be put down, like an earthling dog. 

Still, he cannot leave now, not when Jim curls a hand along his wrist to still him. The fabric between them blocks out most of the residual emotions, but the affection still flows there, warm and wan.

“It is, I cannot tell you what your support means to me, to Bones too.” Jim says. “But your health is just as important as ours, and you’ve been, not yourself recently. I know what happened with your father is affecting you. It’s… it’s  _ hurting _ you, and I know it's not a physical wound, and I know that may not fit in with Vulcan ideals, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself. We can survive without you for a little while if you need to visit your father, I promise. Or- or if you would like one of us could even come with you. We can spare Bones for a few days, have him get a separate opinion.”

Jim looks so hopeful that Spock almost agrees,  _ almost _ , even if the account is falsified in its entirety. Maybe then this all would end. It will have to at some point. Still, Spock cannot allow himself to cripple the crew, to cripple the Captain for that long. They need McCoy more than they need him, so Spock shakes his head. 

Jim’s face falls before he takes a single, resolute breath. The hand on his wrist squeezes ever so slightly. 

“What do you need then? Whatever it is, we’ll do it. You’re  _ ours _ , Spock.” Jim says, like its more than just a position, like its inherent fact. “There’s nothing you could say that would make us think any less of you.  _ Nothing _ .”

_ Not even lying to your lover?  _ Spock wants to ask.  _ Using information he’s told in complete confidence to dodge a question? Betraying his trust, betraying  _ _ your _ _ trust?  _ He stares blankly at a spot on the floor, unable to bring himself to meet Jim’s eyes. His mouth feels thick.

Instead of spring, everything, everything tastes like death. He can feel the flowers inside him wilting with the lies. 

“Perhaps a leave of absence, Captain." He acquiesces . "Would three days be sufficient?” 

Jim softens immediately. 

“Three days would be just fine, Spock. Take all the time you need.” He ducks a bit to meet Spock’s downward gaze. “If you need anything, anything at all you call me, alright? Bones and I… if you need us, we’ll be there.”

“I have it noted, Captain.” 

He will not call on them. When he returns to his dorms that night, the disease is the strongest it has ever been. He spends half his night hunched over his bathroom sink, and when he becomes too weak for that, curled up over the wastebin on the floor. Every petal, every stem he coughs up is a wilted, steady brown. That is not all. When Spock swings his bleary gaze down into the basket, he notes the worst of it. 

Every bit of it is coated in blood. 


	2. The Part Where They Find Out

When Spock wakes, he is surprised. The stench of sickness clings heavy to him, and he lacks the strength to fully pull himself up off the bathroom floor. The muscles in his abdomen clench angrily in response to even the slightest movement, irritated and swollen at the previous day’s abuse. 

Spock, for his part, notes this clinically. He had not expected to wake like this. He had not expected to wake at all. 

He is not certain if he wanted to. 

He is not certain of much of anything right now, nothing but the sickness heavy in his stomach and the fact that he needs to at least get up and do something, anything. Especially anything that involves being clean and tasting something other than the sickly sweet gumminess coating his tongue. 

So he gathers up what’s left of his strength and begins his ascent, and then promptly faulters when he hears his room door slide open and the last voice he would have wanted to hear calls out. 

“Hey Spock, I’m just here to check on you real quick.”

Spock freezes. 

No.  _ Please no _ . He will do anything, say anything if it would get his Captain to leave. But his mouth is too try, and his limbs too weak, and it matters not when the Captain walks through his bathroom door.

“Hey I know you said you wanted space, but I was just coming to-“ he stops, and Spock feels his confused gaze finally alight on him. There’s a small beat of frozen features before the Captain’s strangled voice finds itself. “ _ Spock _ ?” 

His legs seem to awake with his voice and he turns the corner in a frantic rush to skid to a stop at Spock’s side. One hand immediately goes immediately to take his pulse and the other takes a softer approach and Spock feels rather than sees the Captains feather-light touch brushing the hair out of his eyes. His sight is too blurry for much, but he knows he’s being touched. Even that lightest of brushes from this man sends the flowers in him writhing, and he coughs weakly, too drained to even expel anything more than a thin stream of green-tinged bile. 

That, if anything, seems to fuel the Captain’s panic more, as he immediately uses the hand in Spock’s hair to tip his head to the side. Spock must make some kind of a noise at this, one completely uncategorizable to himself, because suddenly Jim is hushing him softly and offering up as many assurances he can fit into the space between them. 

He cycles through the “I’ve got you”s and “I’m here”s as he checks vitals and snaps something into the comm Spock can’t even begin to comprehend. The ruse is up even before it’s truly done, and when Jim pauses in his consoling to take a quick look in the waste bin, likely to report its contents to medical, something heavy settles in Spock’s gut. He knows what this means. Even his dehydrated, barely operational brain knows exactly what the Captain will see, and he can pinpoint the exact moment Jim pieces it together. 

There’s a moment of stillness, a rigidity that has never fit his Captain, before he’s discarding the bin and turning to wrap an arm around Spock’s shoulders. Spock barely has time to get his legs under him before he’s being heaved up. The rush of blood does nothing to curb the nauseous, sick feeling settling in his stomach. He scrambles for purchase, barely managing to hook his fingers in his Captain’s tunic, before Jim starts them walking. 

“We’re going to sickbay.” He says for explanation, taking most of Spock’s weight and setting off at a brisk pace. He must have, at some point, paged McCoy, but Spock can barely think past the blur clouding his brain. 

They keep a steady pace, anger fueling the Captain and desperation fueling Spock. None of the crewmen they pass try to help them. The entire walk to sickbay, it is just the two of them, the constant motion, and the flowers creeping their way up his throat. 

Spock defies all probabilities when he doesn’t get sick even once on the way there. 

He comes close, the one time they do stop, when Spock’s breaths are coming in heavy pants and Kirk must be tired from hauling him across the ship. Spock leans his full weight against the wall, and the Captain, for his part, doesn’t let him slip further down to the floor, where it is doubtful he’d be able to get up from. It’s the only moment of stillness since that very first, and likely the one chance Spock will have to explain himself. 

He goes to start, statistics and logistics at the ready. 

“Captain, I-”

“Shut up, Spock.” His Captain’s voice is low, but angry and choked. Spock only just resists the urge to flinch. “Just keep your mouth shut, before I do something I regret.”

He wraps his arm tighter around Spock’s waist and the moment is gone. A second later, he starts them moving again. Everytime their bare skin brushes, Jim’s emotions slam into him: hurt, anger, betrayal,  _ betrayal, betrayal. _

The flowers in him squirm at the feeling, this wrongness settling in his chest. 

Spock has never been more relieved to see the sickbay doors. 

-

Surprisingly, Jim doesn’t drop him in Sickbay. 

As rough as he’s been in getting Spock here, he’s almost too gentle in when he sits Spock on the biobed, adjusting the pillows behind his back as if the emotions under his skin aren’t screaming their disgust. One night nurse makes the mistake of trying to assist them and gets ran off with a sharp glare and a promise that Dr. McCoy was on his way. 

Spock’s already withering stomach clenches further. 

He disregards the almost immediate need to avert his eyes and turn away. Jim deserves more than that. They both do. Especially when he can feel the hurt Jim is practically radiating.

“I expect you want an explanation, Captain.” Spock’s throat is sore with disuse, rendering his voice almost unrecognizable, but it is loud enough for Jim to swing his angry gaze back to him.

“Oh, I want more than that,  _ Commander _ .” The sharp edge to his words is a echo of the one he uses with crisis situations on the bridge, stern and demanding. This is not  _ Jim  _ he’s talking to but the Captain, and Spock adjusts accordingly, straightening his back up the best he can to look him in the eye. Or he would have, if he hadn’t seen the tears first. 

He blinks once to clear his vision. The angry tear tracks are still there, marking their way across his Captain’s face in bright, glistening lines. 

All of the words Spock prepared vanish at the sight. There was, of course, a sixty-three percent chance this would occur. The Captain was, in all ways, dedicated to his crew. He strived to make the Enterprise as much his crew’s home as it was his own. On more than one occasion, he has pulled Spock aside to ensure that he was not over stepping his boundaries as Captain or placing unnecessary strain on his crew. He never did, not intentionally, and any oversights were corrected almost immediately upon them being brought to his attention. Because of this, the crew, from mechanic to navigator all adored him. Betrayal on any level was nearly unheard of and extremely personal to Jim, and as close as they were (as they were no longer), it was even more so. 

The news of this was bound to hurt him deeply. Spock knew this. It should not have come as any sort of a shock.

Still, the sight of his Captain’s distress renders Spock just as speechless as it always did. As the flowers inside him shake and die, Spock finds himself trying to determine some way, anyway to explain why he had done what he had without hurting him further. 

Across the biobed, Jim braces himself with a hand on the rail to angrily swipe at his face, cursing when it only dislodges fresh tears from his lashes. The empty space behind Spock’s breastbone  _ aches _ at the display.

He needs to do something. He caused this… this shift in his Captain, and he needs to do something to fix it. If he were to appeal to Jim’s sense of logic, there is a possibility the Captain will calm.

So Spock tries again. Anything to calm the feel of Jim’s _betrayal betrayal_ **_hurt_** swirling around them.

“Logically, as a Vul-“ 

“ _ Logically. _ ” Jim whirls back around, knocking into the bedside table and nearly tipping it.  _ “ _ Jesus Spock, what do you mean  _ logically.  _ Did you not think that we would need to know about  _ this _ ?” Jim’s shouting now, and the tone in itself is enough to make Spock jump, nevermind the volume. His Captain may be young but he is, above all things, reserved in his voice and actions, especially in front of his crew and even more so when he’s upset. Anger has no place in a place of command, and Jim is sure to keep it that way. 

Apparently Spock has overridden that particular facet of his resolve. 

“Captain, you did not need-”

“I did not need what, Spock? To know that my First has been fighting a life-threatening disease the past two months, that his area of expertise was shot because he’s so  _ sick _ -“ His voice cracks, and Jim has to swallow to start again, voice significantly lower but just as pained. “He’s so sick he can barely hold himself up? Please, I’d love to hear your explanation for why my First Officer has been keeping vital information from me about his ability to perform in a field in which we get  _ shot at  _ on a near weekly basis. Do enlighten me. I’m certain I want to hear  _ all of it _ .”

This is almost certainly a human facet of sarcasm. Spock does not think Jim wants to hear any of this. As it is, Spock can barely sit without watching the outline of Jim’s form weave in and out of existence. Talking is another matter entirely. The petals bundle at the back of his throat. His concentration is firmly focused on avoiding being sick all over his Captain’s regulation boots. Jim continues speaking anyway, stepping forward to bunch up the shoulder of Spock’s uniform in his shaking hands. 

“I’ve sent you out into the field Spock. I sent you out into potential warzones with crewmen on multiple occasions. I’ve sent you out with  _ Bones.  _ What would you have done if you got there and realized you were unable to watch their backs? Hope Scotty was able to beam you up? You know how picky the transporters are!” He gives Spock a rough shake. “You could have gotten you and your crewmates killed! Did you even think about that?”

He did not in fact think of that. The thought makes his already aching head spin. The twisting makes him want to gag.

McCoy’s sudden appearance does not make the situation any better. The Doctor looks rumpled, likely having just woken up, but all traces of exhaustion vanish from his face when he takes stock of the situation.

“Jim,  _ what the hell _ is wrong with you?!”

He grabs Jim’s shoulders and nearly throws him away from Spock, and then comes to stand between them, watching his partner with furious eyes. 

“If you ever lay a hand on one of my patients, I’ll ban you from ever coming in here again, Captain or not. What  _ ever  _ made you think that would be okay? And especially  _ with Spock _ ! You know what’s going on right now!”

“Oh I know exactly what’s going on right now!” Jim snaps, and Spock remembers vividly being a child, hiding out from the quiet hissed fights his parents would have in the living room. This is not much different, Spock thinks, as he watches McCoy’s face go red from rage. 

“Then why are you acting like this!” The Doctor yells and Spock with all his infinite knowledge of possibilities and consequences, knows exactly how this is going to end. That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t ache when his Captain screams back. 

“Because it’s not his father!” Jim’s chest heaves for a moment, heavy with emotion, before he continues in a voice low and quiet and rife with pain. “He has  _ Hanahaki _ , Bones. I saw it.” 

With those words, he seems to draw all the air out of the room. Spock himself has never had need for a straw, but he feels like he’s breathing out of one. His vision tunnels to the look of  _ hurt  _ stamped on McCoy’s face, that only intensifies when Jim continues his angry tirade. 

“He wasn’t grieving; he was  _ sick.  _ There never was any message and there never was any trip back and there never was any heart condition. It was all just lies to what- throw us off the scent?! Put our attention elsewhere?!” He whirls on Spock, another rush of fresh angry tears shining through the sheen over his eyes. “What did you think we were going to do, Spock,  _ let you die in peace _ ?!”

“I- I don’t-” Spock cannot force the words out of his mouth. As it stands, it doesn’t seem to matter anyway, as Jim seems to take this as an opportunity to continue with his tirade. That is not however, the worst part of this situation. 

Jim’s yelling has not deterred Leonard from his original duties. Instead, the explanation of what is truly happening seems to have made him almost excessively clinical in his care. The hurt look on his face has furrowed into a tight look of constraint. Spock blinks to find him cutting the sleeve off his tunic without so much as a flicker of the usual dramatics. 

It seems that where Jim is loud in his anger, Leonard is quiet and seething. It is a testament to how bad he must look that the doctor does not scream at him then and there. It’s a testament to the severity of the situation that he does nothing of that sort. Gone is the McCoy temper. Their Southern spitfire surgeon doesn’t give up any emotion at all. 

_ Lay back _ . He says.  _ Give me your arm. Open up.  _ Jim’s yelling becomes some sort of horrible background noise. 

There’s none of their usual bickering, no banter or teasing. The doctor is distant and curt in a way he hasn’t been in years, not since Spock’s short stint as Captain. 

In some ways - _in_ _all_ _ways_ \- this is worse than Jim.

Because Spock has handled an angry Jim before, not as mad as this but he has handled it. He knows what to do, and that eventually, logically, the anger will pass.  _ Please let it pass. _ This version of McCoy is rigid and expressionless, two things McCoy he never was even when he  _ hated _ Spock. This is what shattering his trust has done to him. It’s terrifying, this facet of McCoy, in that he has no idea how to fix this. 

Perhaps he can’t. 

The thought stops him immediately. All the while, the room keeps on spinning. Colors spiral into each other. Eventually, his brain is too addled to keep up with any of it, let alone the two figures dancing in and out of his field of vision. 

Jim’s yelling and Leonard’s commands feed off each other, morphing into some sentient burst of worry that crashes into his mind like a sledgehammer. With every fearful insult and rigid demand, something in his chest twists and churns and scatters into a million pieces. 

Some part of it goes shooting down into his stomach, curdling what little food Spock has been able to keep down; yet another piece shoots directly into his brain, scattering logic in its wake.

The last makes a line for his heart, twisting the organ in some macabre version of love.

Because that’s what this is isn’t it: Love. Spock can no longer deny it, not to himself, and obviously not to the two men for whom his affections are most clear. This disease runs off love. He has the disease, therefore, he is in love, a failed, twisted version of it granted, but love nevertheless.

There’s irony in that, he notes, nods, and then promptly, tips his head to throw up soiled yellow and blue petals down the entire length of his chest.

Horror rises in him, but it’s muted by the sheer relief that this at least has gotten his Captain and Doctor to quiet for at least one moment, their mouths hanging open as they stare. And then that relief is immediately dissolved by the knowledge that he cannot stop. He has been fighting the disease for over a month now, pushing back any attempt at a perceived loss of control, that in the moment where he needs it most, that very control is lost to him. Spock’s body doubles forward of its own accord, and he coughs and coughs and sobs around the next heave of decaying flowers. 

Jim makes a startled noise at that, and Spock can feel his worry and indecision, even though the Captain ceased contact seconds ago. McCoy, however, seems to go the opposite direction. At the sight of his unraveling, the Doctor has dropped the guise of stark professionalism, some of his usual compassion returning to his eyes. All of a sudden, there is an emesis basin beneath his chin, and a sturdy hand across his back, rubbing soft circles between his shoulder blades. 

“Easy,” McCoy soothes. His fingers twitch twenty-four percent too much for him to be completely at ease, but he continues the mantra nevertheless. “Easy Spock,  _ easy _ . You’re gonna be just fine.” 

Spock does not feel  _ fine _ , but he trusts McCoy’s judgement implicitly. The man is the best doctor in Starfleet, and somehow, more importantly, he always seems to have Spock’s best interests in mind. Despite the grousing and name-calling, McCoy’s loyalty has never wavered either to his patients or his crew. 

His loyalty has never wavered _to_ _Spock_. 

This is perhaps part of the reasoning that endeared him to them and led to this problem initially. It is of no consequence now. He can no more change the men around him than he can himself, and he has tried on both accounts. No amount of his lagging concentration will do any more than the constant effort he put in the last couple of weeks, and even those results were insubstantial. 

So instead he does exactly as he’s told, and rides out the rest of the fit almost completely limp and pliant against McCoy’s grasp. When the coughing finally lapses and his body no longer has anything left to expel, the basin is taken away and almost immediately replaced with a soft cloth that serves to wipe away what’s left of the bile and petals from his chin. 

It’s the Captain, that much Spock can tell, but the rest of his thought process is muted by the tricorder humming by his ear and the cacophonous buzz of emotions emanating from the point of the Doctor’s contact along his spine. 

They’re calling his name again, trying for his attention, but what little energy Spock has is waning. There’s too much going on at once, too much contact with too many emotions that both are and aren’t his own, and he’s barely able to concentrate on staying upright, much less anything else. 

He’s not even certain he’s upright at this point. He’s not certain of much of anything. 

His consciousness sinks into the abyss, and for that moment, at least, all is quiet.

——

Something presses firmly against his psi points, and Spock shudders. A low whimper of discontentment springs from his lips, and his consciousness flares with it, dragging him from sleep. He blinks sparks from his eyes, as his Captain’s face settles into view above him.

“There you are,” Jim mummers, once their eyes meet. His face betrays none of his earlier rage. “You think you can answer a few questions for Bones?”

His gaze is earnest and direct, but even if it were not, Spock has never been able to deny his Captain anything. He nods and another palm, less calloused than the first, flits across his vision to press tightly against his opposite cheek, guiding his head until he’s facing away from Jim.  McCoy’s worried gaze stares back at him . The emotion, any emotion, on his face is a welcome one.

“Spock, when was the last time you ate?” 

It takes Spock a long moment to remember.

He hasn’t eaten much, not in the past two weeks when the disease began to accelerate. There have been few moments where he felt well enough to do so, and almost half of those moments he’d been so exhausted he’d slept before he even considered food. Quietly, he tells McCoy as much. A look of disappointment flits across the doctor’s expression, disappointment but not surprise. 

“Figures,” McCoy sighs, and hastily scribbles down something on a nearby pad. He then immediately shoves the pad over Spock’s chest and into Jim’s hands.

“Get that, and I mean actually get that. There should be at least one chef down there that isn’t hardwired directly into the ship.” 

Jim almost immediately begins arguing. His volume is loud enough that the illogical thought of knocking himself back unconscious actually invades Spock’s thoughts. 

“I’m the captain, Bones” He snaps. “I won’t just leave my First!”

“And I’m his doctor!” McCoy snaps back, quieter than Jim but with no less venom. “And right now what he needs more than anything is warm food.” His voice dips conspiritaly, low enough so that even Spock has to strain to hear. “And some space.” 

All the fight drains out of Jim. He flits a glance at Spock, another at his CMO, and sighs. 

“Just this?” He asks, holding up the pad. 

McCoy nods, and then waits until Jim leaves the area before turning back to Spock. “Come on now. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Something distantly horrified in Spock notes that he’s still in his soiled work uniform -minus the sleeve McCoy sacrificed to insert an IV-, bile and petals staining the entire front of his jacket, but he’s so exhausted, he can’t bring himself to care. McCoy seems to know this without even a word, and slips a palm - _ thick gloved, Spock vaguely notes, to ward off the touch telepathy _ \- against his unshaven cheek in sympathy. 

“We’re just gonna get you out of the jacket and undershirt hm? Everything else we can deal with later.” Spock nods in acceptance. He’s weak at this point, barely able to hold himself up, but it doesn’t seem to affect McCoy in the slightest. His grip is sure against his back, raising him up to allow him to rest his face in the junction between the doctor’s neck and shoulder, as McCoy deftly strips him of what’s left of his jacket, and then pulls out a pair of scissors to cut the undershirt off him. 

Spock makes a disapproving noise that McCoy waves off.

“It wouldn’t be this bad if you had just told us,” The doctor huffs under his breath, and moves slightly, likely to get him a gown. He then promptly freezes when he realizes what he’s seeing, eyes wide in his sockets and centered on his chest. 

“ _ Spock _ .” He breathes out in this strangled whisper that has Spock stiffening beneath his touch. He feels McCoy press lightly against his side, where he knows the doctor can count each and every rib. In some ways, he wishes McCoy had forgone the gloves, if only so that Spock can know exactly what’s going on in his mind right now. Because, the look on his face is twisted in such a way that Spock has no idea what he’s thinking. 

Something squirming and quiet inside him says horror. For not the first time, Spock wishes he would stop causing them to feel so.

For not the first time, Spock wishes he had gone to them in the beginning. McCoy splays his fingers out against his back and seems to echo his sentiment. 

“We’ll fix this.” He says. His fingers twitch again, like they do when he’s lying or when he’s terrified beyond all reason. “We’ve got you, Sunshine.”

Spock does not know what he did to deserve that nickname. He does not know what he did to deserve  _ them _ . He is not sure he still does. By all means, McCoy should be furious, and as his partner, Jim should be just as much so. He lied to them both in ways that are so horrible he could not repent if he tried for the rest of his life - _ and if they’ll let him, he will, on Surak, he will _ . Spock does not know how they still stay with him with all that he has done. 

What he does know is that they did not leave him despite this. So, he allows McCoy to slip him into a shirt and settle him back in bed. Together, they wait for Jim to arrive, and the next stage of this journey. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Jim was represented by the buttercups and Bones by the bluebells. 
> 
> Despite my wild writing, I did choose both of these flowers for specific reasons. Both of these plants are considered poisonous. While bluebells don't often cause problems, likely because people don't go around ingesting them, they are potentially dangerous and can cause things such as vomiting and electrolyte imbalance. They are also found partially in areas such as Alabama and Mississippi, close to where Bones grew up. Buttercups, I chose mostly for their bright yellow color, but as many of you know (from Undertale), also because they too cause poisoning in large doses. That's why, while Hanahaki is more of a lung thing, I chose Spock's case to have multiple symptoms, as he's practically drowning in flower toxins at all times. Plus with Spock's biology, I figured I would be free to go about it how I wished. 
> 
> Also, on a completely different note, I love writing the entire crew. They're just so fun and diverse in their mannerisms. They also all love each other so much. It's great. 
> 
> *kreyla is a Vulcan bread


End file.
